


É Tanto Ciò Che Gli È Dovuto

by Arithanas



Category: The Borgias (2011)
Genre: M/M, Master/Servant, Post Season/Series 03, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-14 17:02:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loyalty brought Micheletto back, but he was yet to learn a new meaning for <i>Aut Cesare aut nihil</i>.</p><p>SPOILERS FOR 3x08, 3x09, 3X10</p>
            </blockquote>





	É Tanto Ciò Che Gli È Dovuto

**Author's Note:**

> Written in reply to this prompt left in [The Borgias Kink Meme](http://borgiaskink.livejournal.com/):
> 
> Micheletto/Cesare SPOILERS FOR 3x08, 3x09, 3X10
> 
> Cesare orders Micheletto to come to him whenever he requires his “needs met”, so they don’t have to deal with such a breach in security again.  
> And perhaps Micheletto holds out for a while. For weeks and months.  
> But then one night… One night. Needs must.  
> (not my idea, i just loved it too much not to share it: http://everybodyilovedies.tumblr.com/post/51480655063/3x08-spoilers)

Cesare still couldn't believe that Micheletto returned to his side, which was a miracle if he ever witnessed one.

For weeks, he was just elated to have his silent partner by his right  hand again, too elated to notice that in ruthless cruelty and his efficient ways, Micheletto was still grieving. He was the perfect henchman, but his eyes were harder, his hands softer, his voice even deeper; there was less spring in his step, even when his actions were as swift and accurate as they used to be. People around them started to notice it, but they value their lives and keep their peace; that was the reason why Cesare was totally oblivious of the fact until recently.

Micheletto was a changed man, and Cesare Borgia was not sure if he liked the change.

They rode a lot that day, most of the camp was soundly sleep, some of the men drank by the fire, and others just stared the starry sky, wondering the reckoning of the future battle. Cesare was doing his surveillance tour like every night before retiring to rest; it was when he noticed Micheletto, sat apart the group, within the limits of the camp, his eyes turned to the sky, hands clasped between his thighs, as if praying. As he approached with caution, because you never knew when Micheletto could confuse a friend with an enemy, Cesare noticed the disturbed earth at his feet, too regular to be a coincidence.

“Micheletto?”

“Milord,” the voice which answered his call was quiet and soft, hardly emotional.

“What were you doing?”

“Nothing, milord.” Micheletto took his hands from his lap and placed a leather bound book on the dirt, and then he rose up and saw his master in the eye. “Am I to be of service?”

Cesare didn't reply, he pushed Micheletto away with a careless gesture and bent over to pick up the tome, it was heavy and when he whipped through it, he found it was written in Latin. It was a strange object for a man who can't spell his own name. It took him some moments to realize that that book was a copy of Catullus and all the pieces fell in place.

“Are you trying to learn Latin, Micheletto?”

“No, milord.”

He volunteered no more information, but his eyes shifted a little and his hand darted to that place in his shirt, clutching hard. Old habits die hard, and Cesare found that simple gesture moving: that was the Micheletto he was used to see, though he never stopped to wonder if that was the sign of something going awry inside Micheletto. His hard, dry eyes were fixed in the book, the way a father could do over a toddler wandering around at risk of falling or getting lost. It was obvious that he was rather attached to that book.

“Haven’t you got over _that guy_?”

Micheletto contained a growl; his face contorted a second and then replied with his best blank expression: “I doubt I can ever get over that guy.”

Cesare felt the need to slam that damned tome against this brute’s temple, but he refrained from it. That would drive Micheletto away again; however, he couldn’t refrain to put his hurt in words and with an acrid emphasis: “He betrayed us!”

“No, milord,” Micheletto, imperturbable, replied to his anger. “I betrayed you. That’s why I’m here.”

“To be _forgiven_?”

“To die at your service.”

So Micheletto was planning his final demise, he wanted to go to a place where Cesare couldn’t make him return, and Cesare was suddenly aware that Micheletto was beyond grief if that idea was prowling around the place where survival at any cost used to be. Those last months without his support were bad; Cesare couldn’t imagine his absence being a permanent state.

“Can you find any solution that doesn't involve dying or killing?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Walk by my side,” Cesare said, handing him the book.

Micheletto took the book and followed his master, he left the customary two steps behind and Cesare took him from the elbow to force him to be nearer, there were things they need to clear.

“Last time we talked about…” Cesare hesitated a moment, he didn’t want to poke the wound, “…Catullus, the cat got out the bag and I reckon you are not pleased.”

“It's the same to me, milord,” Micheletto whispered, but his body betrayed him: Cesare felt the contraction of his biceps. “I’ve never been ashamed of what I am.”

“And yet, you failed to warn me about it.”

“A man have needs, milord, and if you worried not if I eat or sleep, I supposed you worried not if I fuck or don't.”

Micheletto had his own ways to deliver elegant insults, in a quite effective ways like the rest of his actions.

“I worry now.”

“Because I mean risk, I know.”

“Among other things.”

“Worry not, milord, I can fare without being of your confidence,” Micheletto seemed crushed by the idea, but he delivered the line with proper deference.

Cesare pressed his lips together, weighting the trouble. Micheletto was right; he was a risk unless he was to be properly severed from all sensible information, a state of affairs that _il Valentino_ couldn't afford, since his was a leveled voice in the cacophony of his counsel. For a second, the idea of making a eunuch of Micheletto crossed his mind, but he disregarded it almost instantly: he already took a lot from his friend.

“How was it, Micheletto?”

The question left his lips without much thought, but that made Micheletto stop his strides by his master; who immediately noticed the suspicion on his eyes, his body warned that he felt the menace and his lips trembled a little of longing and fury.  Cesare Borgia was Spanish, and he had a clear understanding regarding some situations where it was vital to take the bull by the horns: his hand left Micheletto’s arm and hasten to take a bunch of hair to make him came closer before he could shut close the door of their confidence.

“Did you take him, Micheletto?” Cesare asked in a heated murmur, trying to clarify his intention. “Did he fill you?”

The untimely proximity, as well as the peremptory tone of the question forced the way in, Cesare could tell because Micheletto's eyes welled up and his voice was choked with unspent tears when he replied: “Yes to both of them, milord, and then some more…”

Cesare let Micheletto go and then made him a sign to command him to follow; there was no need to turn his head even if there was not sound of footsteps on the packed dirt of the camp, Cesare knew Micheletto could follow him through the gates of Hell with the same ease and dignity he followed his master’s strides through the Vatican. He didn’t stop to take the flap apart; he just pushed it aside and rushed towards the makeshift desk where he planned strategies, ripped a piece of paper and scribbled some hurried words on it with very thick ink.

“Milord?” Micheletto called out, once he tied the flap to a post. The small walk gave him time to draw himself together, and that was good.

“We are done talking of this topic, Micheletto,” Cesare said, both hands on the table as he read again those seven words in the paper. “Next time you have a need, you will come to me. I’ll see to it.”

There was a long stretch of awkward silence. Cesare turned his head to see Micheletto; it was obvious that this solution wasn’t of Micheletto taste. That man, fidgeting with that worn-out book, was part rebellious, part skeptical and pretty much offended.

“What is it‽” Cesare spat, trying to bring Micheletto back to submission.

That was not a question, but Micheletto reacted as if it was.

“We are not talking about a horse or a shirt,” Micheletto shifted his body weight as if he was uncomfortable. His hoarse voice became low as he approached his master. “I cannot fuck on command!”

“You did it once, you will do it again,” Cesare wasn’t forgotten that wicked maiden Micheletto took to bed some years ago.

“That was then, now is now!” Micheletto retorted, equal parts of fury and humiliation were on his voice.

“Micheletto,” Cesare said reining out his spirit, pulling his sword to his henchman to see. “Here it said: _Aut Cesare aut nihil_ and I know that it means nothing to you,” Cesare re-sheathed his sword. “You was loyal then, you are loyal now, since you returned. Those are your options: Either Cesare or Nothing!”

“Then, milord, it will be nothing.”

“Now is now, tomorrow who would know?” his hand was quick to tore the book from Micheletto’s hand. That threw the man off balance and Cesare took the advantage. “Present me this piece of paper next time you feel the urges to have your needs met.” He placed those seven words born of regret and gratitude among those letters used to grieve and bereave, then handed the book to Micheletto.

“That shan't happen,” Micheletto recovered his book and pressed to his chest, “I’m dead, yes?”

“Yet you draw breath, and you will keep doing it as long as you serve me. That’s an order.”

Micheletto just bowed and get out the tent to sort out his feelings and Cesare didn’t press him anymore.

He needed time to heal.

***

War brings out the best and the worst of a man, Cesare noticed it on Micheletto.

He killed with ruthless efficiency, he reacted with utmost promptitude and, yet, his friend and servant started to let his eyes wander, his mind to stretch, and his body to long. Occasionally, Cesare gave him a questioning gaze and Micheletto shook his head and averted his eyes. Micheletto was not ready, but healing was happening, even against his will.

To help that healing, Cesare drew him closer, giving him the chore of getting his master in and out his armor and polishing his sword. That meant extra time to study his betterment, to get reacquainted with Micheletto’s ways, to see the dark mists of his ache diluting into the mundane day-to-day.

The weeks became months. Cesare fell into routine, since everything felt like it was before the spy; Micheletto didn’t seem happy, but he was more or less resigned, that was an improvement. For that precise reason Micheletto’s first request took him unaware.

“You want what?” Cesare asked when Micheletto approached with a quill and a piece of paper.

“I want to see his name in writing, milord.”

“Why in Heaven’s name would you want such a thing?”

“I want to see my name and his name together, milord, please.”

Cesare shrugged at the petition, but dutifully, he wrote both names in a piece of paper wondering what use Micheletto would give to that information. As the quill scratched the surface, Cesare was aware of the change of Micheletto’s breathing, as if he was stifling a sob. Once the two words were written and the paper handed, Micheletto bowed and kissed Cesare’s hand as a token of gratitude.

As day became weeks, Cesare noticed Micheletto mulling over at the boundaries of the camp, crouching on a clear, his hands on the dirt. There was no use in pressing him, but he searched the place once his tour was over; he was curious of what Micheletto was doing there in different occasions, and the discovery made him feel lightheaded.

Micheletto had written three names and had one crossed out. The spy’s name was erased tough it was legible and Cesare wondered what did that mean.

***

They both returned to Rome for the winter, there was no need to be on camp when they better be planning the spring campaign and enjoying the comfort of a good fire and the abundance of food at His Holiness’ table. Micheletto asked for permission to return to his old abode and the idea of his henchman spending nights alone in that bereft loft sent shivers to Cesare’s spine, yet his answer was: _Aut Cesare aut nihil_ , which was enough to close the topic. Since that day, Micheletto had been sleeping in a padded hassock at his master’s apartments with Catullus for a pillow.

One night, Cesare found himself lounging by the fire and wondering about Lucrezia and how would she be faring when Micheletto came to his side, silent and restrained, yet there was something unusual in his posture. Cesare laid eyes on him and immediately a shabby piece of paper was presented for his perusal. Cesare had already forgotten those seven words but its presence brought a little smile to his lips. Healing took its time, but Cesare was seeing its fruits.

“Have you finally got over that guy, Micheletto?” He couldn’t resist the urge to ask.

“God knows I haven’t gotten over that guy,” Micheletto said, his hand clutching his shirt hard, “but He also knows that I’m ready to get under another.”

Cesare just nodded, the smile still fluttering on his lips. Micheletto waited apprehensively for his next order, it was evident that that decision was putting his spirit to the rack, for he had no idea of what was on store for him but Cesare could see that Micheletto saw it like a betrayal to his old lover.

“Well, I was about time…” Cesare put the paper in a safe place, got up and started to untie his doublet. “We better get ready.”

“What for, milord?” Micheletto took a step back, not sure of what was happening.

“I’m going to bed you,” Cesare said, throwing his doublet to the floor, “I thought it was clear!”

For a reason his brain didn’t reach to grasp, his announcement was not as welcome as he thought it would be. Micheletto went pale as if he was scared, and shook as if he had a fever.

“I figured you might be pleased,” Cesare couldn’t help it sound like a scolding as he tried to get rid of his shirt.

“No!” Micheletto was quick, the discarded doublet was already in his hands and he tried to put it back into his master’s shoulders. “I don’t deserve _you_ … Even Pascal was more than I deserve.”

“Micheletto…” Cesare’s voice was a warning, but it fell on deaf ears.

“I mean it,” Micheletto insisted, “please, forget that paper...”

“Shut up and get into the bed.”

The only option when a direct order was given was to obey and Micheletto obliged him, his clothes pooled next to the bed, strangely simple amid the splendor of the Vatican, Cesare saw how he stretched on the big mattress, his body was far too rigid as if he resented the comfort; his skin, exposed to the chill, got goose bumps before Cesare, stark naked, managed to get by Micheletto’s side to cradle him, trying to warm him, to help him feel at ease in the big, soft bed of the son of the Pope; that kind of pleasures were fairly new to him given the poor accommodations he shared with the spy. Micheletto did not try to resist the embrace, but refused to reach out to touch the male flesh beside him, his own flesh unyielding to the touch of his master.

“A little bit better?”

“No, milord,” Micheletto grunted, “It doesn’t feel right.”

“Should I stroke you differently?”

“Could you please have your way with me so it can be over?”

Cesare felt the bitterness in his henchman’s speech. “I thought you were in need…”

Micheletto kept his silence, but he shifted his weight in the mattress to get closer to his master. Cesare petted his hair, because that was what he used to do with Lucrezia.

“I was ready to yield to my need,” Micheletto said finally and his hands dared to touch the naked body of _il Valentino_ , “in some mercenary flesh.”

“Whores can be bought,” Cesare retorted; his hand was busy stroking Micheletto’s dirty mane. “This way you cannot be tricked into say something harmful to me, you cannot let go information guilelessly.”

“Milord… I thought I was ready. I’m not, forgive me.”

“The hard piece of flesh poking my hip says otherwise, Micheletto.”

“It's just a mindless piece of meat, like your servant, yes?”

Cesare pressed him tightly over his chest, regret was seeping around him; his fingers touched Micheletto’s beard and made him raise his face. That vacant gaze was too painful to behold and Cesare closed his eyes; he don’t want to kiss the lips of a broken man, he wanted to caress the mouth of the most dangerous and loyal man in all the Romagna. Cesare wished from the bottom of his bitter heart that a kiss could solve everything, that his meaning was enough to erase all the hurt and to dull all the pain, but he couldn’t fool himself, he knew he had been selfish when he commanded the death of the spy; and for better or worse, he had to live with that knowledge.

Micheletto tried to resist the kiss, he tried to keep distance, because distance was what allowed him to return by his master’s side; the fact that their relationship was established around work and that was what kept them together even in those extraneous circumstances.  The common goal of harnessing power was stronger than friendship —or mutual recognition— and more binding than crime. Distance, somehow, seemed more vital now that Micheletto was aware of his own frailty. Nevertheless, those lips reached his and the simple contact of human warmth made the wound weep bittersweet tears of grief and hope.

Cesare felt the sudden relaxation on Micheletto’s body, as if he willingly accepted the caress and that encouraged his advances. Any reluctance that his henchman had been harboring was washed away under the firm hands of Cesare Borgia; it was such a new experience to touch that body of a hungry wolf, full of scars and rugged by the constant exposure to wind and sun.

“Think of me as mercenary flesh, Micheletto,” Cesare coaxed, his hands groping Micheletto’s haunches, suddenly aware of his lack of knowledge of what to do with his henchman's rugged body, but willing to figure something out. “Just close your eyes and think of nothing tonight.”

Micheletto didn’t utter a word; his chest heaved a stifled sob and he lent his body passively to his master’s hands. That was a bit better; Cesare was pleased and let his hands roam over that chest that harbored an aching heart, he warded his head from the images that assaulted it, Micheletto must have had a terrific time with this Pascal, if he grieves for him for a whole year and a little more. Cesare kissed those lids tightly closed before delivering another soft kiss, one that was not fought but was accepted and Micheletto's mouth complied to the caress with a hunger Cesare had never experienced, his lack of skills became more evident once his hand dared to go down, Micheletto's privates where nothing he ever handled before.

Being honest, he had handled before a set of organs similar to those: the ones in his own crotch; that gave him an idea. He let go Micheletto and commanded him to go under the sheets, and order which was promptly obeyed, though it could be due to cold and not to desire, but it didn't really mattered, the change of position gave Cesare the chance to scope a bit of salve.

“Raise your head,” Cesare commanded to have space to place his hand on Micheletto’s chest; “turn your back to me,” this whole idea of ordering Micheletto around was familiar and soothing.

There was a brief tension when Cesare found his objective, but it was followed by a moan and Micheletto allowed his head to loll on his master's biceps. Cesare smiled and gave the hard flesh on his hand a couple of soft pulls to spread the salve evenly before improving his grip and tug it earnestly; the sensation in his hand was new and wonted at the same time, his arm followed the motion he learnt at short age and that gave him excellent results: Micheletto gasped in his arms and arched his back, his henchman meager rear rubbed his crotch, awakening some flesh that relished in that padded posterior.

“There…” Cesare encouraged his henchman, without letting friction ebb away; he knew first hand that the lack of speed could spoil the whole operation.

Micheletto corresponded with an appreciative grunt and his hips sprang to life on their own volition, tipping a little before thrusting into Cesare's fist. His lips, however, stammered a couple of syllables without voice. Cesare noticed the wet trace of a spilled tear on his cheek.

“It’s alright,” Cesare whispered in his ear, his idle hand brushed his dirty hair from his eyes, “you can call out his name.”

Micheletto pursed his lips and refused to let them part again, bravely fighting the turmoil of his spirit; Cesare pressed his body to Micheletto’s trembling back, nuzzled his henchman’s neck, he even nibbled Micheletto's ear to tip the scales in favor of lust, rather than heartache. Micheletto moaned and let his master have his way; he bucked madly in Cesare's hug, who imagined Micheletto was searching for a way to smother bitter memories amid the waves of pleasure Cesare was giving him.

Cesare clenched his fist as far as Micheletto bore it, picking up pace and speed in the process, the throbbing flesh against his palm warned him the paroxysm was near and, for once, Cesare wanted to give the other person the best pleasure available. Micheletto suddenly groaned and threw his head back —just missing Cesare’s nose by half a line—, the eyes behind his closed lids were rolling visibly as his cock spurted thick drops of liquid seed.

“There…” Cesare mouthed, gasping while cradling Micheletto’s spent body, “it was good pleasure…”

Micheletto gasped and shivered the last scattered remnant of his climax, his chest —for once!— heaved from exhaustion and not pain.

“You will need to teach me what else to do to please you better, Micheletto…”

That had the effect of a bucket of cold water over his henchman's head: Micheletto sprang from between his arms and sat on fine linen, startled. Cesare wanted to laugh out loud at his face.

“I… hmmm… I better…” Micheletto shook his head, Cesare wondered if that helps the thoughts to fall in place, it should because Micheletto let out a rapid tirade in a broken, fast-paced voice. “Sorry I didn’t help your pleasure. I better get going. Excuse me for the sheets…”

“Micheletto, shut up!”

It worked better than a quick slap to the jowls; Micheletto was winded but silent, watching Cesare with the wet eyes of a puppy who pissed the rug.

“Did I meet your needs?” Cesare asked, lounging among the pillows.

“Mostly. Thank you, milord.”

“What else do you need?”

“Nothing you could give,” Micheletto let out a sigh.

“Because those things were only given by that guy?”

A short nod. “And those were fake…”

“What was fake?”

“Not ready to share yet. Sorry.”

Cesare noticed the eyes welled up a little more, so he didn’t insist. This heartbroken Micheletto needed more time to heal, but he was on a sure route to return to his rightful path.

“It's cold,” Cesare commented nonchalantly, “Be grateful and rest by my side to warm me, Micheletto.”

Although it was obvious that  Micheletto distrusted the intentions of his master, he laid his weight  near the Cesare's body and let his master cuddled him, not for warmth or for a soft place to sleep, Cesare was sure, but because he was grateful.  As Cesare wrapped his arms around Micheletto's girth he became aware that the feeling was mutual, he was very much obliged by Micheletto's return, and he was very much in his debt.

In the darkness, with Micheletto by his side, Cesare prayed in silence and his mouth formed those seven words he wrote in his paper, vowing to make things better to this man so seriously grieved by his selfishness.


End file.
